


tell me where your love lies

by lantur



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lantur/pseuds/lantur
Summary: It takes burying one of his two best friends for Roy to realize the true extent of his feelings for the other.
Relationships: Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 34
Kudos: 179





	tell me where your love lies

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Love Lies," by Khalid.

On the worst nights, when Roy wakes up from the nightmares, or when he can’t fall asleep at all, he catalogues the things he has. It is an old habit, one that helps to ground him. 

These are the things that he has. 

No parents.

One aunt-slash-foster-mother.

Seven sisters.

Five men under his command - not counting his assistant.

Two best friends. 

Roy lies in bed, and when the memories of the charred corpses become too overwhelming, and the thoughts of the future nearly as anxiety-provoking, he thinks of the people in his present, instead. Madame Christmas, standing behind the bar and surveying the patrons. His sisters and their easygoing chatter. Falman and the way he squints when he’s concentrating hard. Havoc lighting his cigarette with a quick, practiced motion. The way Fuery hums to himself while tinkering with his communication arrays. Breda sitting opposite him, frowning at the chess pieces in front of them. Fullmetal and his perpetual scowl and they way he stomps around everywhere. 

Above all, Roy thinks of Hughes and his broad, cheerful grin, and Hawkeye, ever-present, quietly steadying, his loyal shadow. 

They are his pillars. His unceasing supports. In the years since Ishval, the years since Roy had made his vow - whenever he has turned to them, for support, advice, assistance, or even just a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, they have been there. Hawkeye has more freedom to talk with him openly, considering that they don’t have to deal with the constraints of phone lines that can be tapped. They talk over late nights in the office where it’s just the two of them, working while eating from takeout containers. Or over drives home that turn into drives through East City’s suburbs, just to give them an excuse, a quiet, private place, to converse.

Hughes has an uncanny ability to tell when his presence is needed, though. He has a knack for showing up in East City unexpectedly, on assignment from Central, during weeks that Roy finds particularly challenging. Roy has lost count of the times Hughes has visited from Central and the three of them have stayed out until last call, Hawkeye alone retaining enough sobriety to drive them back to Hughes’ hotel and then to his apartment, before proceeding home herself. 

On evenings where they have particularly sensitive matters to discuss, they’ve skipped going out entirely. Roy straightens up his apartment, and Hughes and Hawkeye come over with liquor (Hawkeye’s contribution) and snacks (Hughes’ contribution). Hawkeye settles on the armchair, Roy sprawls out on the sofa, and Hughes sits cross-legged on the floor. More often than not, in the very late hours of the night or the very early hours of the morning, they fall asleep right where they’re sitting. 

Roy always wakes first. He looks at Hughes, through eyes still heavy with sleep, sprawled out on the floor. He looks at Hawkeye, curled up on the armchair, knees drawn to her chest. He thinks about how lucky he is, to have friends and allies like these. Friends who would do anything for him; that he would do anything for. And then he falls back asleep.

-

Roy does tell them how much they mean to him, every now and then, over the years. He does tell them he treasures them. Hawkeye always looks a little uncomfortable at these overt displays of sentiment, while Hughes is visibly touched. 

-

When Roy imagines himself as the Fuhrer, he imagines Hughes and Hawkeye standing on either side of him. It’s an integral, unquestionable part of his vision, as clear and obvious as the sky above him. 

-

Roy and Hawkeye are working late, one summer night. Hawkeye is off at Grumman’s office, retrieving some information he had requested, and Roy’s phone rings. The operator tells him that he is receiving a call from Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, from a non-military line.

Roy frowns at the phone and asks the operator to patch Hughes through. 

“Hughes,” he says, impatient, a bit irritable. “If you’re calling me to gush about Elicia again--”

There’s nothing on the other end of the line. Dead air. Silence. 

“Hello?” Roy asks. “Hughes?”

Still nothing. And then the line goes dead.

Roy hangs up. He steeples his fingers together, staring at the phone, perturbed. Hawkeye walks in then, holding an armful of files. She notices his demeanor at once. “Is something wrong, sir?” 

She unloads the files on her desk and comes to approach him. In a matter of moments, she’s coiled, tense, ready to spring into action should he demand it. Roy shakes his head. “The operator told me I had a call from Hughes. From a public phone line, not a military line. When I answered, no one was on the other end. I haven’t had a follow-up call from him, either, to explain that the line went dead on the first call.”

Hawkeye’s brows draw together. “That’s strange.” 

They look at one another, and Hawkeye swallows. That’s the only tell; the only thing that reveals her wariness. “Do you think there’s something amiss?”

Roy stands and grabs his coat. “Are you up for a trip to Central?”

Hawkeye nods once. “Yes, sir. I’ll call Fuery and ask him to look after Black Hayate until we return.”

-

They make the briefest of stops at their respective apartments to grab a few things for the overnight trip - pajamas, toothbrushes, and dress uniforms, in case they stop in at Central Command the following day. They chat a little, on the drive to Central, before retreating into their own preoccupied silences. “I’m sure everything is fine, Colonel,” Hawkeye says. Roy agrees with her. 

His fingers are tight on the steering wheel, and he drives too fast, weaving in and out of traffic. Hawkeye doesn’t rebuke him. 

He isn’t sure what he expects to find, what he expects to hear, when they arrive at Central. They pull up to the first public phone booth they see and Roy dials Hughes’ home phone number, long since memorized. 

Gracia answers. Her voice is thin and shaky. “Hello?”

“Gracia.” Roy winds the cord of the phone around his finger. Hawkeye is near him, almost shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough to listen in. “It’s Roy. I’m sorry to call so late. It’s just that I got a call from Hughes earlier, and I was worried--”

Gracia dissolves into sobs. Painful, gut-wrenching sobs. Roy stares up at the moonless sky, lost for words, wondering why she would be crying like that. He refuses, utterly refuses, to even consider the obvious answer. Hawkeye takes the phone from him. “Gracia,” she says, quiet and soothing. “It’s Riza. The Colonel and I just got to Central. Can you tell me what’s happened?”

Gracia does. Roy watches the color leave Hawkeye’s face, her hand going to her mouth, and he knows, he  _ knows.  _ He has to clutch the side of the phone booth, his fingers digging into the handle, to keep from collapsing. 

-

Hawkeye keeps Gracia on the phone long enough to get the details. She hangs up, and wipes the tears from her eyes in one quick movement. Then she turns to him. She steps close, looking him in the eye. “Colonel,” she says. 

He wants to shake his head, to reject this reality, to wake up, because he can’t live in a world where his best friend is dead, a month short of his thirtieth birthday. He wants to tell Hawkeye this.

“Colonel,” Hawkeye tries again. “Roy. Come on. We have to get to Gracia and Elicia.” 

As close as they are, she hasn’t called him by his first name in eight years. Not since her father’s funeral. That’s the only thing that drags him back from the place that he has gone. Roy shakes his head, dazed. “Right.”

They meet Gracia and Elicia at Hughes’ apartment. There’s a cadre of grim-faced MP officers in the living room, and Gracia and Elicia huddle together on the sofa. Elicia is sniffling, hiding her face in a stuffed bear, and Gracia looks shell-shocked. Hawkeye steps in at once, embracing Gracia, picking up Elicia. She leads them to Elicia’s room, throwing a glance at him over her shoulder, leaving the MP to him. Roy can see that she regrets it, not being there to take the lead, to take that burden off him, but Gracia and Elicia - the two people Hughes had loved most - need her.

The next hour passes in a blur. The MP are spectacularly unhelpful, and Roy has to grit his teeth to keep from losing his temper. 

They leave an hour after midnight. Roy sinks down on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. He breathes deeply, trying to quell the nausea surging within him. He hears movement, soft footsteps against the wooden floors, and looks up. Hawkeye and Gracia join him, both of their eyes red.

“Gracia,” Roy mumbles. He reaches out and takes her hand. “I’m so sorry. How is Elicia?”

“Asleep, finally. She doesn’t understand.” Gracia squeezes his hand, and closes her eyes tightly, and opens them after a moment. “Thank you for being here. Both of you. Here, let me fix some tea.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with that.” Hawkeye rests a hand on Gracia’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of it, if you don’t mind.” 

She returns from the kitchen several minutes later, holding three cups of steaming peppermint tea. The tea is fragrant, but when Roy sips it, it tastes like ash in his mouth. The three of them drink their tea in silence, alone with their own thoughts. Gracia’s hands tremble slightly as she grips her cup. “I’ll make up the spare bedroom for you,” she says, once they’re finished. “You must be exhausted, after making the drive from East City.”

“We don’t want to impose,” Roy starts.

Gracia shakes her head, glancing at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room, and rubs her eyes. “It’s half past one in the morning. I’m not going to send you two out to find a hotel. It’ll just be a minute. The Elric brothers were just here recently, so everything’s almost set up as it is.”

Roy and Hawkeye are settled in the guest bedroom, with its two twin beds, within a matter of minutes. Gracia makes her way into Elicia’s room, walking slowly, trailing her fingers against the wall, her shoulders slumped. There’s an eerie hush in the apartment. Roy remembers it, from Ishval, from Hawkeye Manor after Berthold Hawkeye had passed so suddenly. The presence of death is nearly tangible.

Hawkeye is sitting on the edge of her bed, in her pale pink pajamas. Her hair is down around her shoulders and her expression is oddly blank. Just as it had been in Ishval, and that night, at Hawkeye Manor. Roy looks at her, and it hits him like a blow, that Hughes is gone, that there won’t be any more phone calls and visits and long conversations about their shared vision for the future. There won’t be any more gatherings in his living room with liquor and snacks, and waking up to Hughes sprawled on the floor and Hawkeye curled up in her armchair. Roy almost crumbles where he stands. 

Hawkeye pulls herself up. She puts a hand on his back and walks him to his bed, guiding him to sit. “Try to sleep, Colonel,” she instructs. Her hand on his shoulder feels warm and real. “You need to get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

-

Roy wakes up from a nightmare, in the middle of the night, gasping, sweating, the covers tangled around him. He’s in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room. He catalogues the things he has, out of habit, to ground himself.

These are the things that he has. 

No parents.

One aunt-slash-foster-mother.

Seven sisters.

Five men under his command - not counting his assistant.

Two best friends. 

Then he remembers.

Roy rolls onto his side, burying his face in the pillow. He can’t stop shaking. He hears the rustle of covers on the other side of the room, and then movement.

His bed sinks down a couple of inches when Hawkeye sits on the edge. She rests a hand on his arm and stays there, a silent guardian, until he falls back into a fitful sleep. 

-

The only things that get Roy through the next two days (the postmortem, the details that have to be put in place for the funeral, the funeral itself - one of the worst agonies he has ever experienced - and the investigation at Central Command after the funeral) are coffee, sheer will, and Hawkeye. 

He does everything right. He stays as sharp and focused and mentally present as he can. Everything still feels surreal. He’s helped with murder investigations before, but he had never in a thousand years dreamed that one day he would be investigating the murder of his own best friend. 

Hawkeye is a grounding presence at his side, talking him through his thoughts, taking the lead on conversations with Central staff members when he feels too overwhelmed, and handing him cups of coffee. Their fingers brush when she does that, and Roy has to fight the uncharacteristic temptation to grab her hand and squeeze it in his own, feel the warmth, the reality, of it. He thinks of all the times Hughes had thrown an arm over his shoulder, a solid, comforting weight that he’ll never feel again. 

Hawkeye drives them back to East City from Central on Friday afternoon, three days after Roy had received his last phone call from Hughes. She had rolled the window slightly down for a breeze, and her loose hair flutters in the wind.

“A warm day like this,” Roy says, looking out his own window. “It reminds me of Ishval.”

Hawkeye makes a soft sound of assent, and he glances back over at her. “It’s just the two of us, now.”

“We’ll find justice for Hughes, sir.” 

For the first time, Roy notices how exhausted Hawkeye looks. There are dark circles under her eyes, and her skin is unusually pale. She must have been sleeping poorly these past few nights, just as he has been. He realizes, belatedly, that she is mourning too. Not just on his behalf, on Gracia and Elicia’s, but on her own. Hawkeye and Hughes are - were - as different in personality as night and day, Hughes’ exuberance and cheerfulness a sharp contrast to Hawkeye’s stoic, reserved nature. But over the years, the two of them had grown close, a closeness and friendship sparked by their mutual love and support for him. 

“We will.” Roy hesitates, and he’s taken aback by the sudden surge of fear that courses through him. He’s felt a torrent of sorrow and rage and regret and shame since Tuesday evening, but this is new, the fear. Hughes had been taken from him because of what he had learned, and now he’s leading Hawkeye and the rest of his men into the same lion’s den where his best friend had perished. “Hawkeye?”

“Yes, Colonel?”

Roy swallows. His throat feels as dry as sandpaper. “Be careful,” he says. What he doesn’t say is,  _ I won’t be able to survive burying you, too.  _

-

Hawkeye parks the car in the back parking lot of his apartment building and hands his keys to him. She lives just a few blocks away, close enough to walk. But she hesitates as she slips out of the driver’s seat, and faces him across the roof of the car. “Will you be all right this weekend, sir?”

He should say  _ yes.  _ He has work to catch up on. Plans to make. But Roy’s hand seizes around the keys, the metal digging into his skin. He’s suddenly aware that he hasn’t been alone (hasn’t been without Hawkeye) for more than a few minutes here and there since Tuesday morning, before learning about Hughes. The thought of his empty apartment - his home for the past five years, as familiar to him as the back of his hand, a space he could navigate blindfolded - actually fills him with a sense of dread. 

He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He doesn’t want to be alone, without her. 

“Will you have dinner with me, Lieutenant?” Roy asks. “We could discuss a few things around the impending transfer.”

Hawkeye inclines her head. “Yes, sir.” 

-

They make their way up to his apartment. Roy opens the blinds and the windows, letting some fresh air in. He hears Hawkeye walk into the kitchen. “I can order some food,” he calls.

“It’s Friday evening. We’ll have to wait quite a while for delivery, and it won’t take me long to make something.” Hawkeye leans out of the kitchen. “Do you have any ingredients?”

Roy shrugs. “I have noodles and peanut butter and a few jarred sauces. And eggs, maybe.”

Hawkeye retreats back into the kitchen, looking unimpressed by the inventory. Though this is actually a good stockpile, compared to the usual state of his refrigerator and cabinets. Roy joins her, rolling up his sleeves. “I can help,” he offers, feeling rather out of his depth.

“That’s not necessary, Colonel.” Hawkeye opens the bag of noodles, and then fills a pot with water. “This won’t take much effort.”

Roy wanders back out to the living room, staring out the window, lost in thought. He returns to Major Armstrong’s words for the hundredth time, wondering how far up this conspiracy goes. As far as the Fuhrer himself?

Hawkeye’s voice jolts him out of his reverie, and he turns to see her holding two bowls piled high with noodles. “Noodles with chili peanut sauce,” she says. “It’s not Nong’s, but it’ll do.”

It’s a childhood favorite of his, something his father used to make for him, and then his aunt. Roy can’t even remember the last time he’s had homemade food. He takes the bowl, and maybe it’s just the fatigue, his mind wandering to strange places after so many sleepless nights, but he’s nearly struck to speechlessness at the domesticity of it. “Thank you, Hawkeye.”

They sit next to each other on the sofa and wolf down their food, discussing the details of their unit’s transfer between bites. Roy tries not to think of the empty space on the sofa where Hughes would sit, if he were here with them (as he had been so many times, as he will never be again). They’re finished too soon, and Hawkeye stands, glancing out of the window. “I should go and pick Black Hayate up from Fuery’s.”

Roy bites the inside of his cheek against the request for her to stay just a little longer. It’s ridiculous of him; Hawkeye has a life she needs to get back to. She can’t be expected to simply keep him company through the entire weekend. “Of course. I’m sure he misses you.”

He walks Hawkeye to the door. Before she leaves, she turns to him, and for a moment, it looks like she’s going to reach out and place a hand on his arm. She curls her hands into fists instead, and keeps them at her side. “Take care, Colonel.”

“You too, Hawkeye.” 

Roy closes the door behind her, and he rests his forehead on the door. The apartment feels quiet. Empty. He misses her already.

-

The nightmares become a daily occurrence. 

Roy dreams of finding Hughes too late, leaning over him, pressing his hand to the gunshot wound in his chest, trying in vain to apply pressure and staunch the bleeding.  _ You weren’t here for me,  _ Hughes whispers in his dreams, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth.  _ You couldn’t protect me. _

Those dreams are bad enough. Roy wakes up with tears in his eyes, an apology on his lips. He muddles through the workdays. Hawkeye doesn’t chide him for being slow with his paperwork. He watches his unit as they go about their business for the day, and their presence, their routines, are comforting and terrifying at the same time -  _ what if I won’t be able to protect them, either?  _

Then Roy starts to have different dreams. Hughes is alive, in these dreams, alive and well and working alongside him and his unit. But Hawkeye is gone. He searches for her in the office, in the long, dark hallways of East City Command, looking for her distinctive hairstyle. When she’s nowhere to be found, he wanders the streets of East City, looking for her. He calls out for her.  _ Hawkeye? Lieutenant!  _ And finally,  _ Riza?  _ He never gets an answer. He never finds her. 

The first time he has this dream, he wakes up at sunrise, with a scream lodged in his throat. 

Roy gets to work early that day, for the first time in - maybe ever. He takes a dramatically abridged shower, doesn’t iron his uniform, drives a little too fast, and doesn’t stop for coffee or breakfast. He parks his car poorly and takes the steps up to East City Command two at a time.

He bursts into the office at five minutes past seven. Hawkeye and Falman are already at their desks, sipping their cups of tea, sorting through their inboxes. They look up at him, startled. “Sir!” Falman salutes, revealing no surprise at the fact that his commanding officer has just, quite literally, run into the office a full two and a half hours earlier than he normally comes sauntering in. 

“Colonel?” Hawkeye asks, visibly concerned, and she rises to her feet. “Is everything all right?”

Roy stands in the doorway and stares at his Lieutenant, drinking her in. Despite the early hour, Hawkeye looks perfectly put together, whole and healthy, uniform pressed, hair brushed and gleaming, tucked into its usual neat updo. She’s here, right before his eyes. It’s not like him, but he wants to walk over to her and hug her tight and breathe in the scent of her soap and shampoo and the laundry detergent she uses on her uniform. 

“Fine,” he manages. “I’m fine, now.” 

-

Roy goes downstairs to the mess and buys a cup of coffee. He takes it to the fourth floor, west wing library, which is almost always deserted, a favorite haunt of his. He stands by the window and sips the too-bitter drink.

He hears Hawkeye approach. After so long, he recognizes the cadence of her steps. She joins him by the window, standing a respectable distance away from him. “Colonel.” Roy feels the weight of her gaze, and the worry in it. “I wanted to let you know that if…” She hesitates. “If you’re struggling, I’m here for you. I hope you know that.”

Roy dares glancing at Hawkeye. She looks up at him in that quiet, compassionate way she has. And he would like to open up to her, but he can’t find the words. He can’t find the words to say that Hughes, here one day and then gone the next - it’s reminded him of long-forgotten memories, of his parents, bending down and kissing him goodbye before getting in the car to visit their friends - there one evening, gone the next. 

It’s a reminder that life can be fleeting and impermanent, cruelly so. And he doesn’t want it to be that way. He doesn’t want to lose any more people who are precious to him. Not his men. Not Hawkeye. He wants to hold them close, keep them safe, and protect them, but he  _ can’t.  _ He’s already failed once.

Roy takes a sip of his coffee. His hand trembles, like Gracia’s had on that first terrible night after finding out about Hughes. “I know.”

She stands with him until he’s finished drinking.

-

Second Lieutenant Rebecca Catalina comes by their office that Friday evening to pick Hawkeye up. “Our last night out before your transfer,” she says mournfully, leaning against Hawkeye’s desk, watching Hawkeye gather up her things. “None of our spots will be the same without you.”

“I’ll come back to visit. And you’re always welcome to stay with me in Central.” Hawkeye lets her hair down from its clip, tucking it into her bag. She had changed into civilian clothes shortly before Catalina arrived, a knee-length dress the color of lavender, made from a light, airy fabric. She looks like any normal young woman, not the soldier she is. She looks over at him. “Good night, Colonel.”

“Good night, Hawkeye.” Roy pauses in his writing, and he’s suddenly conscious of the darkening evening. He can’t help but think of Hawkeye walking home, alone on the city streets, passing a public phone booth. Something inside him tightens, forming a knot, and it doesn’t matter that they’re still in East City, that they should be safer here. “Call me when you get home?”

The words, the request, just slips out, on impulse. Hawkeye blinks, but recovers quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Roy returns to his paperwork, as Catalina and Hawkeye leave. He’s vaguely conscious of Catalina’s whisper to Hawkeye -  _ kind of weird, isn’t it?  _ before the door closes behind them. 

All the breath leaves his body in a sigh, and he puts his head in his hands.

-

Roy is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when the phone rings. He sits up quickly and answers it before the first ring is completely over. “Hello?” He’s already breathless, hoping that he’ll hear something on the other end, not silence, not dead air.

“Colonel, it’s Hawkeye.” 

It’s so comforting to hear her voice. Roy exhales, and lies back down, closing his eyes. “Lieutenant. Thank you for checking in. Are you home safe?”

“I am, sir.” Hayate yips in the background, and Hawkeye shushes him. Roy imagines her slipping off the heeled sandals she had worn, and sinking down onto the sofa. Hawkeye pauses. “You don’t have to be so concerned about me. It’s an hour past midnight. You shouldn’t have stayed up.”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant. I’m fine.”

He betrays himself by yawning, and Hawkeye actually laughs softly. He hasn’t heard her laugh in a very long time. Not just since Hughes. Since before Shou Tucker and his little daughter. Since before Scar began murdering State Alchemists. And Roy realizes that he is smiling, a tiny smile, for the first time in weeks. It feels foreign on his face. 

“Go to sleep, sir.” Her tone is gentle, almost affectionate. 

“I will, Hawkeye. Good night.”

They hang up. Roy turns onto his side and presses his face into the pillow. These hours, the hours he spends trying to fall asleep, are the most difficult hours of the day. He doesn’t just think of Ishval any longer. He thinks of Hughes in eternal rest, alone in the military cemetery. He thinks of Elicia, missing her father’s bedtime stories. He thinks of how many others might fall to this shadowy conspiracy before he and his unit can untangle it.

These thoughts don’t help him sleep. 

Roy’s mind wanders. He thinks of Hawkeye in her purple dress, getting ready to go out - a little bit of the worry and strain eased from her features, replaced with anticipation and happiness at spending time with her friend. He remembers her laugh. The sound of her voice when she had told him to sleep - the subtle warmth in it. He wants to wrap himself in it like a blanket. He savors it, just like he savors the fleeting half-second of comfort of her fingers brushing against his when she hands him paperwork or a cup of coffee. 

Roy falls asleep. For the first night since Hughes, he sleeps for five hours straight. 

-

The transfer to Central is, predictably, challenging. On top of the regular responsibilities associated with his rank, there’s the undercover work to be mindful of as well. Late nights become an even more regular occurrence.

Roy looks at everybody at Central Command, everybody that’s not his unit and Major Armstrong, with suspicion. Even the building itself, looming into the Central City skyline, takes on a sinister, inimical quality. He’s worked out of Central Command periodically over the past few years, but the large building isn’t as familiar to him as East City Command had been. He feels foreboding well up within him when he’s walking down the hallways, unconsciously retracing the last steps Hughes had taken before he had rushed out of the building and to the public phone booth where he had breathed his last. He takes alternate routes to avoid passing by Hughes’ old office. He lingers in the records room, staring helplessly at the files, wondering what Hughes had found that had condemned him. 

The only time Roy feels the anxiety within him ease somewhat is when Hawkeye is two steps behind him or at his side, a reassuring presence, blonde and blue in his peripheral vision. And even that isn’t reliable. Sometimes the two of them are together in Central Command and he has fleeting, horrifying visions of the shadows in the hallways reaching out and dragging her within, into the dark bowels of the building. He glances over his shoulder to confirm that Hawkeye is still there, and she looks back at him steadily. 

It had been fairly common for Hawkeye to be the last one in the office while they were in East City. Roy doesn’t let that happen any longer. He never leaves while she’s still working, and he convinces her to let him drive her home every night that she is on duty. He watches as she steps into her apartment building, into the safe, warm glow of the front lobby. Just as she had watched over him and Hughes in Ishval, now he’ll watch over her. 

It’s nineteen-hundred hours on a Thursday evening when Hawkeye stands up from her chair and rolls her shoulders. “Most everyone should have left for the night by now. I’m going to go do my shift searching the record room, sir.”

Roy sets down his paperwork. His progress on it has been far slower than usual today. His mind has been focused on processing the revelations that Barry the Chopper had unleashed on him, Hawkeye, and Falman just a couple of nights previously. “I’ll come with you.”

“There’s no need, Colonel. I’m more than capable of protecting myself, and I know you’re behind on your work.” Hawkeye walks to the door, rests her hand on the frame, and looks back at him. “Reviewing Breda’s report is the highest priority of your to-dos. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

Roy sighs. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

She gives him a small, encouraging smile and then leaves, the door shutting softly behind her. Roy shuffles through his inbox and finds Breda’s report halfway through the enormous stack. He pulls it toward him and begins to read, only half paying attention. His thoughts drift to Philosopher’s Stones, to gruesome experiments on live prisoners. All with the blessing of Central Command. 

He hadn’t had much sleep the past night. Like the many, many nights before. The words before him blur and shift. Roy’s eyelids grow heavy.

He wakes up facedown on his desk, head buried in his arms. His neck and back are stiff. He straightens with a groan, disoriented, wondering why Hawkeye hadn’t woken him. Roy looks at the clock, and then looks again, rubbing his eyes. It’s been an hour and a quarter. The office is still empty. There’s no sign of Hawkeye. She should have been back thirty minutes ago.

Roy stands so quickly that he almost upends his chair, and curses aloud.  _ You’re an idiot,  _ the voice inside him says, low and scathing.  _ To let this happen again. The first time was bad enough, but there are no excuses this time. You knew the dangers, and you let her go alone.  _

He strides blindly through the hallways of Central Command, his heart in his throat, and every time Roy turns a corner he expects to see Hawkeye motionless and limp on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out from underneath her. He’s already flashing forward to another military funeral like Hughes, except there’s no Hawkeye standing at his back this time, no Hawkeye to comfort him as he weeps in front of the grave. He wants to vomit.

The records room is empty. There are no files or books out of place. Nothing to indicate that Hawkeye had even been here. Roy paces in a tight circle, gripping his hair. He needs to think and plan his next steps - would Black Hayate be able to sniff Hawkeye out? - but right now, he just wants to--

“Colonel?”

Hawkeye steps into the records room, a few files tucked underneath her arm. 

“Hawkeye?” Roy asks hoarsely. He wonders if he’s hallucinating. If his mind has finally snapped from the strain of all the unbelievable things that have happened, all the unbelievable things he has learned, over the past month. 

Hawkeye glances at the clock in the corner of the room and then back at him, realization dawning in her eyes. “I’m sorry for worrying you, sir. I just thought that, if there were any records on the alchemical laboratories, they wouldn’t be held here, where anyone could come across them. I found these in a storage room on the third floor. I was able to pick the lock, but there was no clock in there.” 

He should be furious at her for doing something so impulsive on her own, especially considering the circumstances. Roy opens his mouth to issue a reprimand, and what comes out instead is a small, choked sound. Hawkeye moves toward him, like she would place a hand on his shoulder, visibly alarmed. “Colonel--”

It’s inappropriate conduct, an unacceptable lapse. Roy pulls Hawkeye into his arms and hugs her tightly, burying his head in the side of her neck, and breathes in, harsh and ragged, almost a gasp of relief. He can feel her pulse point underneath his lips.

Hawkeye freezes. He should apologize. He should pull away at once. They’ve never done this before. Roy has thought of her as one of his two closest friends for years, just as Hughes had been - but he and Hawkeye have always both been silently mindful of the gender difference, never sharing the same easy physical intimacies (arms around shoulders, embraces, pats on the back, the occasional headlock) that he and Hughes had shared. But this is such sweet respite, this closeness to her, the one person who knows him and sees him and understands him best, and Roy can’t bear to let her go. 

Finally, tentatively, Hawkeye wraps her arms around his waist and hugs him close. “Sir,” she whispers, and Roy has the feeling she’s struggling to find words. “Everything is going to be all right. We’ll get through this, as we’ve gotten through everything before.”

“I’m afraid, Lieutenant.” It isn’t a confession he would make to anyone else. It isn’t even something he would say to Hawkeye, anywhere else, anywhere but this deserted records room, late in the evening, with her warm and soft in his arms. Roy closes his aching eyes. “I’m afraid that this country is even more rotten at the core than we thought it was. That taking it down will be even harder than I thought. And that I’ll lose even more, by the time it’s all over. I can’t…” He falters on the words. Even now, he can’t give words to his deepest fear, the one that’s haunted him ever since Hughes died.  _ I can’t lose you.  _

Hawkeye pulls back slightly, her grip on his arm tightening, and she looks at him with fierce determination in her eyes. “No matter what we’re dealing with now, and what lies on the path ahead - I’ll be with you every step of the way, sir. You won’t have to walk alone.” 

She says it with such pure, powerful conviction. “I know, Lieutenant.” Roy reaches out, on impulse, and touches her face, cupping it in his hand. Hawkeye leans into his touch, slightly, fractionally.

Something shifts, in that instant. A belated realization, an understanding clicking into place, with such frustrating, ridiculous simplicity. He should have seen it earlier. That the way he craves Hawkeye’s presence, the way he needs her, the intensity of his desire to have her at his side, keep her close, isn’t just because Hawkeye is his closest friend. It isn’t just because she’s his queen, the most valuable chess piece on his board. 

Roy almost laughs. He hears Hughes’ voice, his resigned sigh.  _ Roy, you know, you’re an idiot.  _

It’s stupid. It’s ill-advised. It’s a moment of weakness, but after everything that’s happened in the past month and the toll it’s taken on him, he  _ is  _ weak. Roy leans in, his nose brushing Hawkeye’s.

Hawkeye takes a small step back, placing her hand on his chest, gently pushing him away. “Sir.” There’s a slight flush to her cheeks. “This isn’t the right time.”

There won’t be a right time for them - but this a worse time than most. If he kisses her now, they will never be able to stop. And there is no room for distractions in the dangerous game they have entered into. Roy exhales, closing his eyes, suppressing the frustration that wells up within him. “You’re right.” 

He shouldn’t, but he reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear anyway, the touch lingering. Hawkeye goes still, but she allows the contact. 

“I hope you know…” Roy stops, unable to say it. Saying it will just make things harder.  _ I hope you know how I feel about you,  _ he would like to finish, but he won’t. _ I love you. I want you. I would marry you in a heartbeat.  _

Hawkeye nods. “I do, sir.”

Some of the anxiety that has dogged him for a month releases. 

They stay like that, for just another couple of seconds. Then Roy clears his throat and steps back. Hawkeye picks up her files. He opens the record room door for her, and they walk back to the office together. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> The spark for this story was my wondering what kind of relationship Riza and Maes had, as Roy's closest supporters and friends. I love the idea of Roy, Riza, and Maes as a friendship trio, and of course Hughes' murder guts them. 
> 
> I hope that you enjoyed reading. I'd love to know what you thought!


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